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brandon nagley Mar 2016
i.                                                               ­                                                  iii.

                                                           ­                      Daliythers expand,
Afore man's image,                                              bridging Nova's.
                                                         ­                        Twin flame heat;
                                                           ­                      Extra-amourials,
                                                ­                                 lantern's to be the
There were writing's.                                          Star's.
On the wall's; carved
Afar, betwixt the jar's,
Wherein tear's art
Stored from children's
Long.

ii.                                            ­                 iv.

Exuberance aroused.                          Me and mine Jane
Dark matter to ourn halo                   O' mine twin flame;
                                                          ­       Me and mine Jane
                                                            ­     From the heaven's whence
                                                          ­       We came.
Head's; bairns of the super-
Natural, never born, never
Dead.        




©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley ( Filipino rose) dedication
Afore means- before archaic form.
Art means - are archaic form.
Betwixt - between
2 form of long what I used means- have a strong wish or desire.
Wherein - in which.
Exuberance means-
the quality of being full of energy, excitement, and cheerfulness; ebullience.
Arouse means- evoke or awaken (a feeling, emotion, or response.
Bairns- young children.
Ourn is our.
Daliythers- is a word I made up meaning ( delightful feathers)
Extra-amourials- is a word I created means ( extraterrestrial amour or love bringers......) Also meaning- bringers of amour from heaven.
Whence- means from which.
Ellen Joyce Jun 2013
My memory beats in rhythm with my heart.
Spilling out snapshot flashes of life like a flick book's muffled cries.
Controversial plastic shell, elastic strap, stick insect mattel covetted for months
until Santa dropped it down the chimney,
almost as fast as she sprogged and regained her figure
- the original scrummy yummy mummy set to spread low self esteem.

My daddy said anyone can crank out a kid like she did,
as my mother ground her teeth to protest on behalf of her traumatised frame.
Strange, I almost became one of the lost - before I grew cells and self,
another fragile foetus swinging on a noose
from gallows where once a ****** failed to stayed closed.
Little life curled tight self soothing sings al na tivke iredem bim'nucha

My memory beats in rhythm with my heart
as I lie beneath my shroud of sadness filled with down shrinking from the light of day
I want to tell you that I love you,
that my heart brays, beats, bleets, breaks, aches for you.
My soul, spirit, self thrice chorus al na tivke iredem bim'nucha
as waters flow from deep to deep
where danger dances and solace is sought
from beyond the fruitless orchards and willows weeping
branches reaching out for you.

My memory beats in rhythm with my heart
surrounded by madonna, ***** and all betwixt
spheres of life protruding, pronounced, announcing themselves;
in streets where bundles, terrors, cherubs, banting, brat and bairn alike
shriek, scream, squeal, shout, squalk, squabble, sing
in a cacophony that makes my heart weep and ache in longing
to sing to self in solitude al na tivke iredem bim'nucha.

My memory beats in rhythm with my heart
pulsating thoughts, dreams, hopes of you through the whole of me.
Brought to my knees I seek wisdom, guidence, strength to let you go.
The river is waiting for you, you who I hold tight in my caul
trying to trust, seeking strength to hakshev le'ivshat haga'lim
holding the thought of you,
the love of you,
the hope of you
tight in my arms crooning my lullaby of lament
al na tivke iredem bim'nucha
Translations
When I wrote this poem to express the letting go of the babies much loved but never to be I thought of a song actually from the Prince of Egypt, a film I first watched in Hebrew, so I looked it up.
al na tivke iredem bim'nucha
hush now be still love my baby dont cry
hakshev le'ivshat haga'lim
sleep while you're rocked by the stream
A Tale

“Of Brownyis and of Bogilis full is this Buke.”
                              —Gawin Douglas.

When chapman billies leave the street,
And drouthy neebors neebors meet,
As market-days are wearing late,
An’ folk begin to tak’ the gate;
While we sit bousing at the *****,
An’ getting fou and unco happy,
We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Whare sits our sulky, sullen dame,
Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

This truth fand honest Tam o’Shanter,
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter,
(Auld Ayr, wham ne’er a town surpasses,
For honest men and bonie lasses).

O Tam! hadst thou but been sae wise,
As ta’en thy ain wife Kate’s advice!
She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum,
A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum,
That frae November till October,
Ae market-day thou was nae sober;
That ilka melder, wi’ the miller,
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller;
That ev’ry naig was ca’d a shoe on,
The smith and thee gat roarin fou on;
That at the Lord’s house, ev’n on Sunday,
Thou drank wi’ Kirkton Jean till Monday.
She prophesied that, late or soon,
Thou would be found deep drowned in Doon;
Or catched wi’ warlocks in the mirk,
By Alloway’s auld haunted kirk.

Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet,
To think how mony counsels sweet,
How mony lengthened sage advices,
The husband frae the wife despises!

But to our tale: Ae market-night,
Tam had got planted unco right;
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely,
Wi’ reaming swats, that drank divinely;
And at his elbow, Souter Johnny,
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony;
Tam lo’ed him like a vera brither;
They had been fou for weeks thegither.
The night drave on wi’ sangs an’ clatter;
And aye the ale was growing better:
The landlady and Tam grew gracious,
Wi’ favours, secret, sweet, and precious:
The Souter tauld his queerest stories;
The landlord’s laugh was ready chorus:
The storm without might rair and rustle,
Tam did na mind the storm a whistle.

Care, mad to see a man sae happy,
E’en drowned himself amang the *****;
As bees flee hame wi’ lades o’ treasure,
The minutes winged their way wi’ pleasure:
Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious,
O’er a’ the ills o’ life victorious!

But pleasures are like poppies spread,
You seize the flow’r, its bloom is shed;
Or like the snow falls in the river,
A moment white—then melts for ever;
Or like the borealis race,
That flit ere you can point their place;
Or like the rainbow’s lovely form
Evanishing amid the storm.—
Nae man can tether time or tide;
The hour approaches Tam maun ride;
That hour, o’ night’s black arch the key-stane,
That dreary hour he mounts his beast in;
And sic a night he tak’s the road in,
As ne’er poor sinner was abroad in.

The wind blew as ‘twad blawn its last;
The rattling showers rose on the blast;
The speedy gleams the darkness swallowed;
Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellowed:
That night, a child might understand,
The De’il had business on his hand.

Weel mounted on his grey mare, Meg,
A better never lifted leg,
Tam skelpit on thro’ dub and mire,
Despising wind, and rain, and fire;
Whiles holding fast his gude blue bonnet;
Whiles crooning o’er some auld Scots sonnet;
Whiles glow’rin round wi’ prudent cares,
Lest bogles catch him unawares;
Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh,
Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry.

By this time he was cross the ford,
Whare in the snaw the chapman smoored;
And past the birks and meikle stane,
Whare drunken Charlie brak’s neck-bane;
And thro’ the whins, and by the cairn,
Whare hunters fand the murdered bairn;
And near the thorn, aboon the well,
Whare Mungo’s mither hanged hersel’.
Before him Doon pours all his floods;
The doubling storm roars thro’ the woods;
The lightnings flash from pole to pole;
Near and more near the thunders roll;
When, glimmering thro’ the groaning trees,
Kirk-Alloway seemed in a bleeze;
Thro’ ilka bore the beams were glancing;
And loud resounded mirth and dancing.

Inspiring bold John Barleycorn!
What dangers thou canst mak’ us scorn!
Wi’ tippenny, we fear nae evil;
Wi’ usquabae, we’ll face the devil!
The swats sae reamed in Tammie’s noddle,
Fair play, he cared na deils a boddle.
But Maggie stood right sair astonished,
Till, by the heel and hand admonished,
She ventured forward on the light;
And, wow! Tam saw an unco sight!
Warlocks and witches in a dance;
Nae cotillion, brent new frae France,
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels,
Put life and mettle in their heels.
A winnock-bunker in the east,
There sat auld Nick, in shape o’ beast;
A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large,
To gie them music was his charge:
He ******* the pipes and gart them skirl,
Till roof and rafters a’ did dirl.—
Coffins stood round, like open presses,
That shawed the Dead in their last dresses;
And by some devilish cantraip sleight
Each in its cauld hand held a light,
By which heroic Tam was able
To note upon the haly table,
A murderer’s banes in gibbet-airns;
Twa span-lang, wee, unchristened bairns;
A thief, new-cutted frae a ****,
Wi’ his last gasp his gab did gape;
Five tomahawks, wi’ blude red-rusted;
Five scimitars, wi’ ****** crusted;
A garter, which a babe had strangled;
A knife, a father’s throat had mangled,
Whom his ain son o’ life bereft,
The grey hairs yet stack to the heft;
Wi’ mair of horrible and awfu’,
Which even to name *** be unlawfu’.

As Tammie glowered, amazed and curious,
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious:
The Piper loud and louder blew;
The dancers quick and quicker flew;
They reeled, they set, they crossed, they cleekit,
Till ilka carlin swat and reekit,
And coost her duddies to the wark,
And linket at it in her sark!

Now Tam, O Tam! had they been queans,
A’ plump and strapping in their teens;
Their sarks, instead o’ creeshie flainen,
Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen!—
Thir breeks o’ mine, my only pair,
That ance were plush, o’ gude blue hair,
I *** hae gi’en them off my hurdies,
For ae blink o’ the bonie burdies!

But withered beldams, auld and droll,
Rigwoodie hags *** spean a foal,
Lowping and flinging on a crummock,
I wonder didna turn thy stomach.

But Tam kenned what was what fu’ brawlie:
‘There was ae winsome ***** and waulie’,
That night enlisted in the core
(Lang after kenned on Carrick shore;
For mony a beast to dead she shot,
And perished mony a bonie boat,
And shook baith meikle corn and bear,
And kept the country-side in fear);
Her cutty sark, o’ Paisley harn,
That while a lassie she had worn,
In longitude tho’ sorely scanty,
It was her best, and she was vauntie.
Ah! little kenned thy reverend grannie,
That sark she coft for her wee Nannie,
Wi’ twa pund Scots (’twas a’ her riches),
*** ever graced a dance of witches!

But here my Muse her wing maun cour,
Sic flights are far beyond her power;
To sing how Nannie lap and flang,
(A souple jade she was and strang),
And how Tam stood, like ane bewitched,
And thought his very een enriched;
Even Satan glowered, and fidged fu’ fain,
And hotched and blew wi’ might and main:
Till first ae caper, syne anither,
Tam tint his reason a’ thegither,
And roars out, “Weel done, Cutty-sark!”
And in an instant all was dark:
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied,
When out the hellish legion sallied.

As bees bizz out wi’ angry fyke,
When plundering herds assail their byke;
As open pussie’s mortal foes,
When, pop! she starts before their nose;
As eager runs the market-crowd,
When “Catch the thief!” resounds aloud;
So Maggie runs, the witches follow,
Wi’ mony an eldritch screech and hollow.

Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou’ll get thy fairin!
In hell they’ll roast thee like a herrin!
In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin!
Kate soon will be a woefu’ woman!
Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg,
And win the key-stane of the brig;
There at them thou thy tail may toss,
A running stream they dare na cross.
But ere the key-stane she could make,
The fient a tail she had to shake!
For Nannie, far before the rest,
Hard upon noble Maggie prest,
And flew at Tam wi’ furious ettle;
But little wist she Maggie’s mettle—
Ae spring brought off her master hale,
But left behind her ain grey tail:
The carlin claught her by the ****,
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.

Now, wha this tale o’ truth shall read,
Ilk man and mother’s son, take heed:
Whene’er to drink you are inclined,
Or cutty-sarks run in your mind,
Think, ye may buy the joys o’er dear,
Remember Tam o’Shanter’s mare.
francine Dec 2019
both souls missing
forcibly torn apart

in the dead of night.
one by one
one by two.

the only witness is the bairn.
and
the are effects everlasting.

enduring continuous;
indecisive ,
melancholia,
re-living.

the bairn faces pain.
"is it my fault?"
"is there something wrong in the brain?"
"how can I close this vault?"

an end of a life
a return of a soul

that's my plan to once again feel whole.
its a mini story like thing based off a a game? and sort of real life?
Sonorant Jul 2021
Banished before thon barren plains,
Where treacherous tears abstain
Fare. Fair is the waste,
The impurity of deep, decrepit weeds.
And dage brings fruit then touched
Only by their ravens of rot.
May they paint thine tainted stave
In golden garth and lull the lark;
“Mine, Sweet babe,
Robbed of cradle
Readied for ritual.
Mine, Sweet babe,
Gore masked black
Within the crimson bath.”
Lacen their throats, the gullets that gloat!
Lest langes of thorns, wrap the bairn sworn.
Death breeds glore o’er luid nights
Beldam rise belles in wicked repel.
Round the funeral pyre.
Eleete j Muir Jan 2012
The probity of paraclete malafide
By crocodile tears smithed
Thrawing the wand whilst green
As the chime child of the
Passing bell trips the light fantastic
By hook or by crook in best bib
And tucker igniting corpse candles
Travelling along the soul road
Shroved by guardian crosses made
Of that fatal tree, the gallow of knowledge
Hung by familiar elders
Taking back the breath of life.


ELEETE J MUIR.
brandon nagley Jun 2015
Temple tunics
On antipodal brim
Enfolding in boughs
Lochs of lagoon
No broadcasts
To ruin ourn tune
Ourn tress to clout
No shame nor doubt
Endless labyrinth
North to south
Feeding doves by hand
Grains of tan
Whilst the bairn scowl
For mimes and Lambs
Broods of technology
Tearing down filth
Governmental collapse
Every man's self
In his house!!!
Eleete j Muir Jan 2014
Cherubim, Seraphim
Watching from above, afar a flying dove; crepuscular
Peace of mind in you we find, arcane
Playing amongst the darkness, what we were I forgot
Bairn devine,
Define;
Angelic promises, Demonic pride
Cosmic tears, is it to ourselves we lie?
Through my eyes I see the mirror of indifference
Aeon-Antiquity
Shadows illuminated by night, the moon the bringer of light
Corona, soul.
Angelic promises made in hell!
Deistic dipterous demons within thee; watch 'de'skies',
Demonic pride facing fears vanquishing friend or fiend
The belligerent zenith a conflagerated nirvana.
Inside ourselves we die, we lie for salvation; trying.
You watched us in thy darkness-
You took away the light;
Now know more, shadows shed pain
An acrimonial heaven built upon the burning of sepulchre.
Tear drops of eternal rain
Splashing on the doorstep of purgatory
Like dew on a rose
Dawn arisen,
Ethereal ebullience the dream of cornucopia;
An Elysian asphodel
Cerulean, Azure.



1997 ELEETE J MUIR
INSCRIBED TO ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ.

        Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
        Their homely joys and destiny obscure;
        Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile,
        The short and simple annals of the poor.
                  (Gray, “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard”)

  My lov’d, my honour’d, much respected friend!
      No mercenary bard his homage pays;
    With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end:
      My dearest meed a friend’s esteem and praise.
      To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays,
    The lowly train in life’s sequester’d scene;
      The native feelings strong, the guileless ways;
    What Aiken in a cottage would have been;
Ah! tho’ his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween!

  November chill blaws loud wi’ angry sugh,
      The short’ning winter day is near a close;
    The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh,
      The black’ning trains o’ craws to their repose;
    The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes,—
    This night his weekly moil is at an end,—
      Collects his spades, his mattocks and his hoes,
    Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend,
And weary, o’er the moor, his course does hameward bend.

  At length his lonely cot appears in view,
      Beneath the shelter of an aged tree;
    Th’ expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher through
      To meet their dad, wi’ flichterin noise an’ glee.
      His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonilie,
    His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie’s smile,
      The lisping infant prattling on his knee,
    Does a’ his weary kiaugh and care beguile,
An’ makes him quite forget his labour an’ his toil.

  Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in,
      At service out, amang the farmers roun’;
    Some ca’ the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin
      A cannie errand to a neibor toun:
      Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman-grown,
    In youthfu’ bloom, love sparkling in her e’e,
      Comes hame, perhaps, to shew a braw new gown,
    Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee,
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be.

  With joy unfeign’d, brothers and sisters meet,
      An’ each for other’s weelfare kindly spiers:
    The social hours, swift-wing’d, unnotic’d fleet;
      Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears.
      The parents partial eye their hopeful years;
    Anticipation forward points the view;
      The mother, wi’ her needle an’ her sheers,
    Gars auld claes look amaist as weel’s the new;
The father mixes a’ wi’ admonition due.

  Their master’s an’ their mistress’s command
      The younkers a’ are warned to obey;
    An’ mind their labours wi’ an eydent hand,
      An’ ne’er tho’ out o’ sight, to jauk or play:
      “An’ O! be sure to fear the Lord alway,
    An’ mind your duty, duly, morn an’ night!
      Lest in temptation’s path ye gang astray,
    Implore his counsel and assisting might:
They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright!”

  But hark! a rap comes gently to the door.
      Jenny, wha kens the meaning o’ the same,
    Tells how a neebor lad cam o’er the moor,
      To do some errands, and convoy her hame.
      The wily mother sees the conscious flame
    Sparkle in Jenny’s e’e, and flush her cheek;
      Wi’ heart-struck, anxious care, inquires his name,
      While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak;
Weel-pleas’d the mother hears, it’s nae wild, worthless rake.

  Wi’ kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben,
      A strappin youth; he takes the mother’s eye;
    Blythe Jenny sees the visit’s no ill taen;
      The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye.
      The youngster’s artless heart o’erflows wi’ joy,
    But, blate and laithfu’, scarce can weel behave;
      The mother wi’ a woman’s wiles can spy
    What maks the youth sae bashfu’ an’ sae grave,
Weel pleas’d to think her bairn’s respected like the lave.

  O happy love! where love like this is found!
      O heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond compare!
    I’ve paced much this weary, mortal round,
      And sage experience bids me this declare—
    “If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare,
      One cordial in this melancholy vale,
      ’Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair,
    In other’s arms breathe out the tender tale,
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev’ning gale.”

  Is there, in human form, that bears a heart,
      A wretch! a villain! lost to love and truth!
    That can with studied, sly, ensnaring art
      Betray sweet Jenny’s unsuspecting youth?
      Curse on his perjur’d arts! dissembling smooth!
    Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exil’d?
      Is there no pity, no relenting truth,
    Points to the parents fondling o’er their child,
Then paints the ruin’d maid, and their distraction wild?

  But now the supper crowns their simple board,
      The halesome parritch, chief of Scotia’s food;
    The soupe their only hawkie does afford,
      That yont the hallan snugly chows her cud.
      The dame brings forth, in complimental mood,
    To grace the lad, her weel-hain’d kebbuck fell,
      An’ aft he’s prest, an’ aft he ca’s it guid;
    The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell,
How ’twas a towmond auld, sin’ lint was i’ the bell.

  The cheerfu’ supper done, wi’ serious face,
      They round the ingle form a circle wide;
    The sire turns o’er, with patriarchal grace,
      The big ha’-Bible, ance his father’s pride;
      His bonnet rev’rently is laid aside,
    His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare;
      Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide,
    He wales a portion with judicious care;
And, “Let us worship God,” he says with solemn air.

  They chant their artless notes in simple guise;
      They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim:
    Perhaps Dundee’s wild-warbling measures rise,
      Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name,
      Or noble Elgin beets the heaven-ward flame,
    The sweetest far of Scotia’s holy lays.
      Compar’d with these, Italian trills are tame;
      The tickl’d ear no heart-felt raptures raise;
Nae unison hae they, with our Creator’s praise.

  The priest-like father reads the sacred page,
      How Abram was the friend of God on high;
    Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage
      With Amalek’s ungracious progeny;
      Or how the royal bard did groaning lie
    Beneath the stroke of Heaven’s avenging ire;
      Or Job’s pathetic plaint, and wailing cry;
    Or rapt Isaiah’s wild, seraphic fire;
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre.

  Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme,
      How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed;
    How He, who bore in Heaven the second name
      Had not on earth whereon to lay His head:
      How His first followers and servants sped;
    The precepts sage they wrote to many a land:
      How he, who lone in Patmos banished,
    Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand,
And heard great Bab’lon’s doom pronounc’d by Heaven’s command.

  Then kneeling down to Heaven’s Eternal King,
      The saint, the father, and the husband prays:
    Hope “springs exulting on triumphant wing,”
      That thus they all shall meet in future days:
      There ever bask in uncreated rays,
    No more to sigh or shed the bitter tear,
      Together hymning their Creator’s praise,
    In such society, yet still more dear,
While circling Time moves round in an eternal sphere.

  Compar’d with this, how poor Religion’s pride
      In all the pomp of method and of art,
    When men display to congregations wide
      Devotion’s ev’ry grace except the heart!
      The Pow’r, incens’d, the pageant will desert,
    The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole;
      But haply in some cottage far apart
    May hear, well pleas’d, the language of the soul,
And in His Book of Life the inmates poor enrol.

  Then homeward all take off their sev’ral way;
      The youngling cottagers retire to rest;
    The parent-pair their secret homage pay,
      And proffer up to Heav’n the warm request,
      That He who stills the raven’s clam’rous nest,
    And decks the lily fair in flow’ry pride,
      Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best,
    For them and for their little ones provide;
But chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside.

  From scenes like these old Scotia’s grandeur springs,
      That makes her lov’d at home, rever’d abroad:
    Princes and lords are but the breath of kings,
      “An honest man’s the noblest work of God”:
      And certes, in fair Virtue’s heavenly road,
    The cottage leaves the palace far behind:
      What is a lordling’s pomp? a cumbrous load,
    Disguising oft the wretch of human kind,
Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin’d!

  O Scotia! my dear, my native soil!
      For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent!
    Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil
      Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content!
      And, oh! may Heaven their simple lives prevent
    From luxury’s contagion, weak and vile!
      Then, howe’er crowns and coronets be rent,
    A virtuous populace may rise the while,
And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov’d isle.

  O Thou! who pour’d the patriotic tide
      That stream’d thro’ Wallace’s undaunted heart,
    Who dar’d to nobly stem tyrannic pride,
      Or nobly die, the second glorious part,—
      (The patriot’s God peculiarly thou art,
    His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!)
      O never, never Scotia’s realm desert,
    But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard,
In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard!
The castle was smaller than I’d thought
In the Scottish countryside,
It sat in a hollow called Claymore Court
Where all the defenders died,
The signs of cannon, pounding the towers
Were there in the crumbled walls,
And shrubs grew out of the rubbled bowers
While trees took root in the halls.

I sensed a touch of hostility
The moment I reached the gate,
For Angus’s friendability
Came on just a little late,
We’d both attended the Priory School
But that had been way back then,
And I, in parting, called him a fool,
He wouldn’t remember when.

But he did us proud with a suckling pig
And a quart of ‘**** o’ the North’,
Marie, who knew him, was ever so big
And sat with me, holding forth.
I had no mind that he felt so strong,
I’d have left the woman at home,
He had this feeling I’d done him wrong
When I coaxed Marie to roam.

And there she sat with a month to go
Way out in front with our bairn,
I didn’t know it would crease him so
But there, you live and you learn.
He coaxed her drink, with a dreadful leer
Pressed on her **** o’ the North,
It wasn’t as if she was drinking beer
Or water, for all that it’s worth.

We went to bed in a tower room
When the moon rose over the glen,
It felt to me like a Highland tomb
As it was to my clan back then,
Marie began to moan in the night
That the bairn was coming forth,
It had a skinful, thanks to Marie
Of that liquor, **** o’ the North.

And Angus heard and he came to gloat
When he heard that she couldn’t hold,
I dropped him there, head first in the moat
To a grave both wet and cold.
Marie and I, we sit in the barn
And the blame swings back and forth,
What price my friend, and a helpless bairn
To a jar of **** o’ the North?

David Lewis Paget
Alan McClure Apr 2011
Cauld-bluided, humphing ower the stark grey hills
Gowd een skinkle to an fro
Split tongue lappin at the wind-blown smells
Bog grass blackens whaur ye go
Smoke split shielings and the clammerin o bairns
Bone cracked mithers in yer wake
Heirt-scaud ruin fae the valleys tae the cairns
Driven by a drouth ye canny slake
Crib tale shapit unner creakin heather thatch
Howf born craitur o the nicht
Auld sangs spake aboot the maidens ye would ******
Fleggit bairns tae keep intil the licht
True? Naw, havers, juist the blaflum o wives
God nivver biggit ocht sae fell
But ae bairn crouchin in the ruins o its life
Can think o naethin else the tale tae tell
Blin, lost, forwandert fae the shattered faimly hame
Warslin wi fear tae unnerstan
White winds whistle as he gies the beast a name
And dragons whiles can take the form o man.
brandon nagley Aug 2015
i

Her Bayanihan entity, maketh me Muni-muni in the dusk
Her Humaling for me is relishing, alleluia for her, wanderlust;
I wilt court her mine soon, so she shalt knoweth all is bona fide
I'll taketh her hand in courtship, pushing all the past hurt aside.

ii

I wilt Siping with her in the sugar, in the bowl she dip's her hand
I'll dip mine finger's as well deep inside, inside her mind of tan;
I'll draweth her name on cardboard, and use black marker to,
Like bairn's in yard's, with relic yarn, I'll connect to mine muse.

iii

And thus to be fused, from ourn electrical sensual Spark's
Naked in the world's view, just as actor's, playing the stage part;
Though tis no script, this page is written by ourn amorous desire
Indigenous bodie's, to light the torches, love HOTT, all sweet fire.

iv

Mango to be viscid, between me and her's succulent tang
Her arm's wrapped around mine neck, not letting go, she hang's;
She is Makisig in perfect perfection, wearing a domino mask
Ballroom style, she driveth me wild, her love tis free, not a task.


©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©あある じぇえん
Bayanihan- means a spirit of communal unity and cooperation in Filipino....
Muni-muni- means to think deeply or ponder in Filipino
Humaling- means extreme fondness.,..
Siping means - to lie down beside someone.
Makisig means well dressed way I used it, can also mean dashing and georgious in Filipino.... Enjoy!!!!!
jeremy wyatt Mar 2011
At long Mynd every tenth year you will see
a Fox and a Falcon together and free
hunting and running and flying as one
every tenth year till this world is done

~~
A young priest stands outside the door
full of doubt cold wet and poor
he takes a breath and ventures in
to Shropshire counties oldest inn

No money gold or goods to trade
to eat a bargain quickly made
preach to us youmg priest and see
if words stir hospitality

A deep drawn sigh and eyes that close
he thinks of his lost northern rose
what is it she'd say to do
to speak and get his spirit through

So he spoke of grace and beauty wild
of open space and gentle child
words that made them listen well
stories from his heart to tell

But as they smiled and gave him cheer
inside a crashing wave of fear
for no young priest or friar he
a Scot who from hard strokes does flee

~
~
Alexander run hard down to the South
you cost our life with your  angry mouth
why did you speak so out of turn
you know a witch they like to burn

Now ashes swirl where you and I
dreamed beneath the open sky
My hope for you I send this day
take what is left  and fly away

~~
Loss and echoes of his wife
drive him south for a new life
the robes he wears a guise he found
a murdered priest upon the ground

Now drawn to this new place he finds
a thought to stay grows in his mind
sink or swim here he will stay
no more to run or hide away

Alexander the Friar soon became
a preacher of some note and fame
in his hovel in the woods
speaking healing doing good

Then one day he did espy
a quiet young boy creeping by
he followed on and sought to find
the troubles on this poor child's mind

~
~

Wee child I see you in the woods
hiding begging like none should
come to me I am no beast
come and eat beside this priest

I'll eat a while and take a rest
but by no priest will my heart rest
the lord and master of this town
would have me killed and hunted down

My story is of grief and woe
my father killed for what he knows
my mother a lady great and good
lay with him in this great wood

And now the Lord fears that my life
can come to haunt his tainted life
to slay my family and **** me
that is what his quest must be

Well boy think on this a while
stay and eat I have some guile
a servant of this friar be
I will protect you keep you free

~~

Alexander thought inside
of how in flames his poor wife died
if he can save this lost wee lad
he knows he makes her spirit glad

So as a servant and a friend
a bargain set at winters end
but more than God our man will show
wisdom of ages he does know

The pair were soon to be well known
into times of trouble thrown
healing helping all they found
Men and beasts wherever found

The boy was one from who healing came
in his young hands was  simple fame
a brood of fox cubs with no mother
he fed them like they were his brothers

But renown for these curious pair
found its way to minds not fair
thoughts of darkness questing mind
what evil brooding lies behind

The Evil Lord set men about
to watch the woods and then find out
who and where the two were there
and bring them to his heartless lair

But whispers in the trees gave word
bark of fox and cry of bird
send the boy away to hide
the priest waits alone inside

They took him in the grey of dawn
dragged him through the forest morn
took him to the Castle cold
for the Lord there to behold

~
~

Alexander of Dunguile born to Mary on the White Cairn
would gladly give his life to keep safe the bairn
however much they beat hurt and tortured him
he kept his great silence beneath his face so grim

~~

After two days enough was cried
it won't be said a priest has died
at my hands but this accursed child
I'll hunt with dogs all through the wild

So casting loose the wounded man
with ravening hounds away they ran
hear the fleeing peasants wail
the hell hounds start upon the trail

~
~

Hurt and injured Alexander crawled
to the broken hut his forest hall
looking on so desperately
for his friend he tries to see

But blood and footprints on the door
marks of violence stain the floor
he drags himself armed with a knife
can he save this poor wee life

~~

They bound the child upside down to a cross
mocked his child's fear and his pain and his loss
left him to die in the mud at the side of the track
tears on his face and blood on his back


"Heark though lads, this boy of god
hanging wishing he had died..
Let us as Jesus treat him kind
we'll plunge a spear into his side

Then we all can go away
to the inn and end the day
leave this rat the Lord said ****
and drink ale on our Lordships bill!"


~
~

Alexander was coming fast
but was so hurt this day his last
spending his final strength and power
like a failing falling flower

All his force spent crawling here
all he can do is lie so near
the boy he sees at the point of death
time to take his final breath

He lies and sees a silent fox
walk to the boy and sniff his locks
as if it recognised the dying soul
and undertook to make him whole


As the life fades and flees at last
a spirit light to the fox is passed
a glance for  boy and priest then fly
away to hillside free and high

~~

As morning comes our Lord rides abroad
to see his deeds and can afford
to feel fulfilled and smug with sin
he always knew that he would win

But Alexander waits a wounded fist
sees the Lord hawk at his wrist
he rides with soldiers to mock the dead
priest's veangance rages in his head

He takes his knife and runs to ****
through swords and blows that will not still
his hate and anger in his head
his heart beats to make this man dead

But "Hold!" his Wife's voice in his mind
"Leave your hate and fear behind"
and as he stumbles to the ground
he hears a sad and wistful sound

He looks deep into the falcon's eye
sees the need for freedom and sky
He moves his blade away from the Lord
his final deed to cut free it's cord

~
~

The fox was waiting on the *****
patiently no need to hope
it knew the time almost there
to see his friend now in the air

So evey tenth year in the sky
if you hear a call a haunting cry
watch and maybe you will see
a fox and a falcon running free
Emily Grace Dec 2012
Trapped.

     I am snared,

forever burning.
The very feathers

circling my throat
tingle with flame.
Embers shiver

as they drip
down my back.

     I am ashes.

There are hands,
with want to touch,

the desperate
feverish mortals
seeking forever,

scrabble about,
thieving my eternity.

But I do not hold
the grail they seek.

I am no fountain
for life and for living.

     I am an undead curse,

ringed with flame.
My talons are pitch
and empty as coal.

The pool of my eye has
the haze of raw steam.

     I did not choose.

I was a spark and
no new-born flicker
shall birth from my

flank. I will never put
tinder and flint to my

breast, never pull forth
a struggling bairn.

     I am barren.

Never will the scorch
spread further than
my soul. The swoop

of my neck is the
tongue of the flames.

     I am bound in this burning.

The smoke fills my lungs,
blacken and sear.

     I cough as I choke,

my skin catches light.
Cracks.

     I am dying.

Everything flames,
spirals within.

     I am free,

roasting to pieces,
crumble to dust.

     I am burning,

beaten wings
an inferno.

     I am free.

Inhale the ashes.

     I am reborn.


Again.


Trapped.
brandon nagley Jan 2016
In the Monolithic municipalities,
We shalt wander betwixt the
megalithic glyph's; bairn's of
somandric design, extra-
terrestrial's of wild blue
Yonder rhyme, sealed
By a kiss. Verily, verily,
Twas heaven's wish.
For me and mine
Jane, to jump
Aboard,
Another's
Ship's.



©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley ( Filipino rose) dedicated
Monolithic means- large or powerful.
Betwixt is archaic for between.
Megalithic- of, relating to, or denoting prehistoric monuments made of or containing megaliths.
of, relating to, or denoting prehistoric cultures characterized by the ******* of megalithic monuments.
Glyph's - a hieroglyphic character or symbol; a pictograph, like in Egypt.
Bairns- meaning children, young ones..
Somandric- means pertaining to the human body, human form..
Wild blue yonder.. Means when the sky views the sunlight.
.
The heat of you,
Bairn in my hands,
I am strung with you,
My song sings out ever
To one unbridled listener,
A lad as wild as gusty seas
And I keen on tighten strings,
Casted about thee, four winds
And am latched with old moon,
My tunes are loudy, unheard of,
Sadder than empty airs in hollow
Bars, bereft of any joy dancers.

Like you I have known love,
In gentle touches that swoon
And take flight up dizzy reels,
I hold you, like fresh newborn,
Child of melody an sleepy dove,
But still, in swells of driest fears,
Unlike you, body of live, heart
Wood, colour of striped tiger,
Regal structure, unchained,
Aged about languid truths,
My fingers unleash you,
Yet they lock, in frieze,
Captive, painting nil
Dreams of brood.
Carlo C Gomez Jun 2023
Boy meets girl.
Girl marries boy.
Baby comes nine months later
— blessed little killjoy.

Boy neglects girl.
Girl henpecks boy.
There'll be hell to pay
for slighting Helen of Troy.

Such an elegant fear,
this alliance, and yet,
when it's held in selfish hands
it merrily dissolves,
turning as tedious
and drab as Shakespeare.

Boy annoys girl.
Girl leaves boy.
It takes a special kind of madness
in building to simply then destroy.

Turn the other cheek
and Judas will kiss that one too,
reduce the bairn's fever
by visiting daddy's igloo.

Weekends are pay toilets
and happy meals,
frustration is a word all too real.
When did antipathy begin to rule?
About the time diplomacy was forced
into playing the fool.

The good times no one catalogues,
this life has gone straight to the dogs.
The Iditarod Trail extends
from Seward to Nome.
Run the race and make believe
the kids are tucked in safe at home.

According to Dorothy
there's no place like it.
Another draft "prisoner" set free...
brandon nagley Jul 2016
i.

Lá breithe shona duit, from whence I came.
Birthed from thy womb, a bairn of thy soothe,
Máthair, Máthair; balm to mine wound's.

ii.

How didst thou deal with me, so needy
And in want; yet mother thou didst
Sheweth me that love is worth more
Than material stuff.

iii.

As I grew, it's thee I knew, that shewed me
Compassion existed; in a world still cruel.
Thou art mine guidestone, in heaven's
Room's, thou art the ray that glow's
Like the midnight moon.

iv.

As when the fear doth shew and come,
To thee, Máthair; I'll alway's run. It's
Thy smile that overpowers the sun,
For thou art the one; who bring's
Sunny day's.

v.

Spiritually were connected, in every way,
Emotionally we've resurrected, aloft death's
Own shade; Lá breithe shona duit, for
Another day, mayest ourn Angel's
Guide thy way, and to God we'll
Praise.


©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Juna nagley birthday dedication
Lá breithe shona duit- means happy birthday in old Irish.
Whence- from which, from where.
Bairn- a child.
Máthair; means ( mother) in Irish tongue.
Sheweth or show- means show.
Didst+ did.
Thou and thee - both mean (you) in archaic form.
Shewed- showed, or show another form.
Doth- does.
Thy- your
Aloft- overhead.

Today's my mother's b day happy birthday to my wonderful mother who's been there for me in darkness and in the light! As she is one of my biggest sources of light! Me and her can relate through everything as we've been through everything together! And as we are one spiritually! Get to know me you get to know my mother alot lol me and her are one ! Happy birthday mother! As yesterday was my mom and dad's anniversary as well lol . So two days to celebrate here! Thanks all for reading!
Happy b day mother!
With love your Sunny boy
Brandon!!!
Dearly Black Annis your Mercy please Spare
So shibble me Eyes by your Flesh glow Blue
A Bairn like me lack much Coat on your Wear
Barely enough to Warm your Shingles few
For as the Cave our peeping fancies fly
Risk your Favours through else spawn our regret
Plunder with your Nails; Then blow-out or Sigh
For reasons our Valiance misinterpret
If the Light room harness for Virtue's floor
To seep out your Forever Doomed Assign
A Task at hand cringe Concepts at the moor
T'was Songs for Shells allow me to Resign.
For Children still plead and Pledge to Behave
Else the Cornerdoor's **** rapes even the Brave.
Rest assured by the sandy shore,
A wee lass, pines her love on the moor.

Leave her ‘lone ‘till the ‘morrow,
And let the wee lass release her sorrow.

Her Child's cry from within thy womb,
Darkened, double bairn in her bodies room.

Och, the lasses pain will remain,
But her mans e’er lasting love will keep her sane.

Bein’ glad for the child,
‘Twill be hard to consume her wild.
She lived in a tiny cottage
On top of a sea-bound bluff,
Looked down on the cold blue waters
In fair weather, and in rough,
The smoke that curled from her chimney piece
Was snatched away by the wind
So couldn’t obscure the window where
She stood, and her eyes were pinned.

She saw the gaggle of soldiers
Rise up, and out of the marsh,
And remembered a past encounter,
Their treatment of her was harsh,
She snipped the lock on the window, then
She hurried to bar the door,
Raised the trap to the cellar, and
Slid down to the cellar floor.

She lay in hopes they would pass on by,
Would ignore her humble home,
Would think that there was a man nearby
Not a woman there, alone,
She knew of the fate of others who
Had invited the soldiers in,
For many a soldier’s bairn was born
The result of a soldier’s sin.

She heard them muttering round the house
And tapping the window pane,
Beating a tattoo on the door
Till she thought she’d go insane,
They’d seen the smoke from her chimney piece
And they called, ‘Hey you inside,
We need to shelter the night at least,
It’s wintry here outside.’

But still she lay on the cellar floor
As quiet as any mouse,
She wasn’t going to let them in
To her tiny little house,
She heard the crash as the timber gave
Away on her cottage door,
And heard the thump of their feet above
As they stomped across her floor.

She heard the sound of their puzzlement
When they found the cottage bare,
‘Somebody must have lit the fire,
But now, they’re just not there.’
She heard them smashing her crockery
And drinking beer from her ***,
She never had enough food to spare
But she knew they’d eat the lot.

Down below was a musket that
She’d kept well oiled and cleaned,
Along with a horn of powder that
She’d felt worthwhile redeemed,
She found the shot and she rammed it home
There was nothing left to chance,
The first to open that trapdoor would
Begin his final dance.

The night came on and they settled down,
Above, she could hear them snore,
She wondered whether they’d go away
When the sun came up, once more,
But then, sometime in the early hours
She heard the trapdoor creak,
And a pair of eyes were hypnotised
As they saw the musket speak.

There once was a tiny cottage
On top of a sea-bound bluff,
It’s now burnt out, just a shell without
A roof or a door, it’s rough,
While down in the cold blue waters
Lies a woman, drowned and dead,
And up on the bluff, a soldier’s grave,
Buried, without a head.

David Lewis Paget
B J Clement Jun 2014
Dusty the miller sits on the sill
And idly waits for a turn of the mill,
but the wind is fickle and will not blow
so the sails won’t turn and the mill won’t go,
and Dusty the miller his wage can’t earn
for his blooming wife and his little bairn.
So he sends for Toby from down the lane
who sailed the seas of the Spanish Main,
and fought aboard The Prince of Wales
to whistle a wind up to drive the sails.
So Toby raised the pipe to his lips
and began to blow like they do on ships
and the notes went soaring into the sky,
to the home of the north wind bye and bye.
On hearing them the north wind draws
a mighty breath, and then he roars
and the sails of the mill begin to fill
and the last I heard they were turning still…
FunSlower Oct 2023
What makes you Feel the full sting of
new harmony in the world?
So, the moon spoke to you as a bairn?

What makes you Think you could string
new harmony through our world?
Go, a revelation is awaiting you, the brave.

What makes you Conceive you should sing
new harmony with her world?
No, the truth is awakening in you, a bane!

What makes you Believe you will bring
new harmony to their world?
Lo, you’re more likely to set it all ablaze.

Archetype of Sadness
Epitome of Love
Architect in all of this; know you are enough!
Feel
Think
Conceive
Believe
willow sophie Aug 2019
She roams hills and the verdurous woodlands
and on each eve of the new moon,
she follows the river,
making merry and becoming drunk with mead-

She had wanted to be with bairn,
to have man, woman or child accompany her through the forest,
but she only knew the fawn-

Alas, as she fled her role as royalty
when the King and Queen were born a daughter,
she wished upon a jolly gay key of brass
that they would birth a son.

And so they did,
with good luck and omens,
she would celebrate not with a record of vinyl,
but with the strum of a harp and the song of quail.
David R Apr 2021
More than the ripple of a thousand tears
More than the cries of a thousand years
More than oceans of anguish and pain
Of cruciation and torture inhumane
Is the music of the spheres
When G-d draws near His bairn
willow sophie Jun 2019
She cries for her children.
she sheds the tears
they bury deep inside;
she charges into battle
with a tear streaked face
to protect her bairn;
a mother's tears
may never be seen
but it does not mean
they do not exist.
David R Feb 2022
the bloom of a flower
nine months in coming
in heavenly shower
heavenly stunning

a new life in arms
celestial charms
life elixir
in innocent peer

feel immortality
shake hands with mortality
the ongoing chain
through birth of wee bairn

though memory's failing
red cheek's paling,
youth's gone a-sailing
libido's ailing

this newborn vitality
overrides mortality
its individuality
is G-d's spirituality.
Falling out of the pram and crawling around and mam in the background shouting, mind the bairn, my turn to walk, faltering, altering the placement of my feet, walking, so neat, and school, wishing I didn't have to walk, and there's no fun in running to sit in a classroom.

then work, back to the crawling to start the day grinding away,
unexpectedly old which is quite a surprise,
consistently told to open my eyes and to watch where I'm going,
knowing that those who say that have never been there,
don't have grey hair nor the thousand yard stare,

but
I'm still here
falling out of my pram
expecting my mam
to catch me.

— The End —